


Seeing Patterns

by obstinatrix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10415013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Young men fitting a certain description are being murdered all over Oxford, and the murderer's motives seem to be sexual. Morse and Thursday set about bringing the killer to justice, and find out more than they bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SundayDuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SundayDuck/gifts).



> Written for @sundayduck for the Fandom Trumps Hate auction. I hope you like this -- I greatly enjoyed writing it!

Fred Thursday tossed his hat onto the desk with a groan of discontent. His head was pounding. It had always felt like one bloody thing after another, policing, but lately the slow, constant carousel of trouble had turned into a whirlwind, and who should be at the centre of it but Morse -- naturally. That lad didn't know what was good for him, not even on the most fundamental level. He, as Fred's old mum used to say, was the type to go borrowing trouble, except that Morse never seemed to have any intention of giving it back when he was done with it. Or, rather, when it was done with him, which didn't look to be any time soon, dear God. 

Fred rubbed at his temples and sighed. His wall calendar was spread on the desk, Morse's narrow scribbles intermingled with Fred's own firm upright hand, marking the days since this hellish nightmare of a case began. Had it only been a week? Fred could have sworn he'd felt himself ageing the better part of a decade since they'd found that first lad in his sad little garret of a flat off the Cowley Road, face up on the bed like a broken doll. A red silk handkerchief had been stuffed into his mouth, but the bruises all up and down his pale bare limbs had muddied the picture from the beginning. Fred had put him mid-twenties, or perhaps a little older but with a young face. Fairish hair, freckles on his shoulders, the sightless eyes wide open and the colour of blue slate. Fred had thought even then of Morse in his hospital bed, hair mussed and long limbs tangled all awry in the sheets, although he'd pushed the image sharply from his mind. That anyone would do this to a young man was bad enough -- Strange, for one, had been at a loss, thrown, but Fred thought he could reckon the reason. That anyone could do it to Morse didn't bear thinking about, but Morse wasn't that way, at least. One thing Fred didn't have to worry about. 

One such murder would have been a tragedy, but two -- two made a conundrum. Death by strangling, De Bryn had judged the first one: bare-handed, and he'd made some careful comment to the effect that possibly it had been an accident after all. A pathologist saw these things every so often, apparently. De Bryn's pale eyes met Thursday's and skittered away, eyebrows quirking in a way that, _thank you_ , Fred could interpret well enough. Queer boys had queer tastes, said the eyebrows; although Thursday was most of the way to sure there was no amount of judgement in the observation, not from De Bryn. He was a strange fish, that one, and Thursday didn't want to think too much about where his passions lay, but he could guess it wasn't with women, and guess a little further that possibly he knew more about this strangulation game than he was letting on. But that was by the by, and anyway, De Bryn was none of Thursday's concern. The point was, they couldn't rule the first death a homicide, not outright, although Fred did wonder about the handkerchief in his poor open mouth, evidently put there post-mortem. It was puzzling, that was for sure, but sex games were what they were. Fred had been in the force long enough to know more than any married man should. 

Then, they found Hal. 

Thursday didn't often remember victims by name, not the way he thought of Hal. It was easier not to, when it came to trying to put their faces out of his mind and leave the job at the nick, where it belonged. But with Hal, it was unavoidable. No mouldy little basement flat for this lad: oh, no. He'd been found by his poor anguished scout in his three-room set, the grandest accommodations Selwyn College had to offer. His bedroom was draped in coloured scarves, gaudy faux-Indian tapestries, bits of red cellophane over the lamps in what Fred was fairly certain must have constituted a fire hazard, and, there on the wall plain above his bed, the lad's name, quite literally in lights. It took a certain sort, Fred thought wryly, to commission a piece like that, your own name picked out in little lightbulbs mounted on pasteboard. Probably it had once seemed raffish, charmingly outrageous. Now it was merely grim, because Hal indeed was here, stretched on his single bed, blood purpling in a ring around his slender throat. 

At first, Fred only saw him in pieces, as he took off his hat and pressed it, sighing, to his chest. The strawberry blond hair fallen over the forehead; the pale eyes open, grey-blue; the death-white naked length of the boy, all arms and legs. And then Morse crouched by the bed, frowning, and a strange ache set up in Fred's chest, all at once -- something between fear and recognition. 

A scarlet handkerchief had been crammed into Hal's mouth, as if to remove any doubt that this was a killer arranging the same tableau for the second time. Morse's long fingers hovered near it for a moment, and then he looked up at Fred with his pale blue eyes in his fair freckled face and said, "I think the pattern is almost too obvious, Sir." 

Obvious, indeed, but this was Oxford: the police loved nothing more than the obvious. Thursday had been afraid from the start that someone else would spot what he himself had noticed with a dull sense of foreboding -- namely, that this maniac had a distinct type, and Morse was it. 

Then Morse, the biggest maniac Oxford contained, had volunteered himself, and Fred could have killed him. 

** 

Morse had often wondered, with a sort of yearning cynicism, what it must be like to be Thursday, or someone like him. Thursday thought the world of Morse, that was clear enough, but Morse couldn't understand why, except that there was so much in Morse about which Thursday could have no inkling. Dependable, straightforward Thursday. He was good to his bones if any man had ever been so, and the way he'd flinched when Morse had volunteered himself as, for want of a better word, bait -- well. It was thoroughly clear to Morse that Sir was affronted by the very thought of his young protege, even in the line of duty, tarring himself with such a queer brush. It was all Morse needed to be sure that, if Thursday knew the whole of Morse's chequered past and the trial that had been his university education, he would recoil in black disgust. 

Morse looked at _Thursday_ that way, was the worst of it. God. He bit his lip at the thought of what the inspector would say if he knew: good old reliable Fred Thursday, the family man and war hero, a life spent sending bad men back to the various hells that had birthed them. Fred Thursday was the sort of man who'd never let an unnatural thought even chance across his mind, but that was the damnable trouble of it: he was, frankly, impossible _not_ to want. At first, Morse had wanted only to emulate him; then to impress him; for a brief time, he had thought the next craving was to be fathered by Thursday, but then it had become sadly, brutally clear that it wasn't quite that at all -- or at least, not _only_ that. . A broken, neglected part of him wanted to be Fred Thursday's boy, in every possible way he could be. 

Morse, really, was a worthless creature. It naturally followed that he ought to submit himself to this sort of assignment, not least to remind himself that what he did from time to time for his own perverse purposes was what normal policemen would have considered a shameful abasement to endure. 

It had been evident to Morse from the beginning that they were dealing with a sexual predator. Some in the nick had been thrown by the seeming disparity between the victims, but Morse knew better. Factory worker or undergraduate, doctor, docker or don: none of it mattered in the dark places where names went unspoken. Men had their types: this one liked slender young men with fair complexions. Morse had played the type enough. Often enough he still wished for more, but that was the fault of Oxford, and all the boys who'd grown up knowing nothing but each other. At nineteen, it had been easy to ache for a friend and have that longing carelessly fulfilled, especially when the women's colleges were few and far between and locked up tight at curfew. But most of those boys grew out of their boyish ways, and that left only the more furtive options, which made the act feel all the more criminal -- although, Morse had to remind himself, now the only criminal element in this affair was the little matter of the murdering. Both young men had been over twenty-one, and that, now, was that. Odd indeed -- although Morse was fairly certain the change in the law had changed few minds among the Oxford constabulary. 

So it fell to Morse to volunteer himself before anybody had to ask, and before Morse had to hear their apologies over it. WPCs had played bait for more terrifying men, and Morse knew how to defend himself, he reasoned. Moreover -- though Bright did not know it -- Morse also knew how to conduct himself convincingly, and thought he could imagine the sort of man they were looking out for. Middle-aged, Morse thought -- but strong, strong enough to overpower a man twenty years his junior. Thickset, a working man. Morse had encountered the like lately, but the ones he chose for himself had kind faces, clever hands and warm, guilty eyes. This man would look guiltless, sure of himself. Morse would have to push aside his own tendency to reach for the fatherly ones. These dead boys had been the sort to want to make things as difficult as possible for themselves, he thought, Hal especially. 

And so, here was Morse in Magpie Lane, waiting. It was cold enough that the white plume of his breath rose up between the close-crowded buildings, and he shoved his hands a little deeper into the pockets of his greatcoat. Frustratingly, the night he'd chosen seemed to have been the wrong one. Once or twice, he nodded acknowledgement of another man emerging and then disappearing, but they weren't what Morse was looking for. "Come on," he muttered. They'd combed both crime scenes for any evidence of a common meeting place -- business cards; an ash tray with a club's name on it -- but there'd been nothing, and that had left only guesswork. But perhaps they'd guessed wrong, even with Morse's inside knowledge. Possibly the man they wanted fished all his victims from a very particular pool. 

"Got a light?" 

More startled; he'd been deep in thought, certainly, but still it was alarming to be so thoroughly -- well, _alarmed_. He was supposed to have a policeman's sixth sense, after all, and yet the large man who now stood at his elbow had moved so soundlessly that Morse was taken aback to see him. He might have been a wraith, materialising out of thin air. When Morse looked more closely at him, though, he was evidently man enough: fifty-something, thickset and dark. The sort of man who might have teenage children at home, and a wife entirely certain her husband was currently enjoying the company of friends at the local. 

Not the man Morse was looking for tonight, but, perhaps, the sort he looked for at other times. The man's eyes were warm and friendly, quietly hopeful, and Morse had to remind himself that he was on duty -- he ought to be kind, so as not to raise suspicion, but he angled himself a little away from the man and tried to keep his smile casual, rather than inviting. 

"I'm afraid I don't smoke," he said apologetically, and spread his hands. 

The man looked him up and down, taking in all of him, and Morse had to fight against his natural impulse to lean back, present himself for display. "You oughtn't be hanging about round here, then, lad. This place is for smokers." A London accent, but pleasant, and the man's mouth quirked up at one corner. He was disappointed, but seemed unlikely, thank God, to become aggressive. Morse ducked his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. 

"Yes, well. I'm waiting for someone." 

"Aren't we all." The man studied him another moment, and then touched Morse's shoulder, and Morse was ashamed to feel the touch reverberate all through his body, a quiet little thrill sparking in his stomach. This man was _exactly_ his type of late, and he didn't have to think too hard to find the reason why. "Be careful out here, then," the man said, "if you're staying. There's dangerous blokes abroad." 

"Thank you," Morse said quietly, and the man tipped his hat and slipped off down the alley, into the deep shadows. Morse watched him go for a moment, until he saw the shape of someone else lean away from the wall and could not watch any more. Of course, a man like that would have his pick of men like Morse who were here for pleasure and not duty. Morse had no doubt of that, but in this moment, he felt his sense of unbelonging like a hand at his throat. It had always been his lot in life to be neither here nor there, neither one thing nor another: neither a country boy nor a city one; neither working class nor the university sort; neither a proper policeman or a proper -- criminal. It wasn't something he cared to dwell on, not when this latest business with Thursday had dredged it all up again. Not that there _was_ any business with Thursday. Of course there couldn't be, and Morse ought to accept that as an end to it. 

He waited in the alley another hour, but there was no sign of anyone Morse thought likely to be their mark. Eventually, he sloped off home and took himself to bed and tried not to wish there was someone with him in it, someone with kind eyes and large hands and a voice with a lilt of London. 

***

The next morning, Morse arrived at the station to find that their man had struck again. 

"No luck last night, I assume?" Thursday said, his voice sounding tight. "If only we could say the same about our mystery strangler." 

Morse couldn't read his tone. At least, he didn't want to hear it as disappointment: Morse had tried his best, put himself, as Thursday thought, in danger, but there'd been very little to go on. God. There _had_ to be some meeting place they had yet to find any evidence of, somewhere in particular the killer went to find his prey. But there'd been nothing in any of the bedrooms, nothing written down or stuffed into pockets. Strange kept on saying how odd it was; even Bright had expressed bemusement, but Morse knew better. Of course these men kept no evidence to hand of the places they liked to frequent. It was, quite literally, more than their lives were worth to chance as much. And now they were dead, and their murderer would likely walk free because of their fear and discretion. 

Well. Not if Morse had anything to do with it. 

*** 

When the call had come through, Thursday's heart had been in his throat, listening to the sergeant's voice on the telephone describing the crime scene and fearing in his heart that the next words would be: _it's Morse_. 

It wasn't Morse, _this time_ , but that didn't do much to take the weight off Thursday's shoulders. As they trekked up to Summertown, he couldn't help but glance over at Morse in the driver's seat, surreptitiously taking in the narrowness of his body, the slender column of his neck. Morse wasn't weak, but he was very slight, the way this maniac liked them. If Morse were really to come across their man on a stake-out, would he even stand a chance? Thursday could see all too clearly in his mind's eye the image of Morse, eyes open in death, the life squeezed out of him at the neck. And yet, what could Thursday say? "You're exactly his type, Morse"? The lad surely knew that already. That was why he'd volunteered, for God's sake; that and the fact that he seemed to place no value at all on his own life. 

This victim, the sergeant had said, was different again: a young professional, a solicitor's clerk, not local to the area. He'd lived in Summertown for eighteen months or so, alone. Totally different scenario, the sergeant said, but as soon as they were shown into the unfortunate boy's bedroom, Thursday could see that, in all the important ways, it was exactly the same. He looked at the bed, and then at Morse, their eyes meeting in quiet acknowledgement. 

"Identical methodology," De Bryn said, unnecessarily. The scarlet handkerchief was still in the young man's mouth. If they could have taken the handprints from the white throat, Thursday thought, and transposed them over the others from earlier crime scenes, they would have matched exactly. 

"Name of Will Jones," said Strange, and Thursday nodded tightly. Will had worn his hair a little longer than the last one, artfully mussed with some sort of product, and now it looked as if someone else had had their hands through it. It was sticking up in peaks. Bed hair. Thursday sighed. 

"I don't suppose you've found any semen on the body?" 

"Sir?" 

Good old Strange, looking thoroughly alarmed at the suggestion, but this had gone on long enough: Thursday was damned if he wouldn't call a spade a spade. Strange could just damn well learn to accept reality. 

"There are more things in heaven and earth," Morse muttered under his breath. 

"No," De Bryn said, looking pensive, "no semen on any of them, their own or the murderer's. Nor have they apparently been interfered with -- recently."

Strange was opening and closing his mouth like a guppy. Thursday pretended not to notice. 

"He kills 'em before they've got too far along, then. That's odd. But he isn't just luring homosexuals for the joy of killing 'em -- he wants them, particularly." 

"Yes," Morse said quietly, as usual, anticipating Thursday's thoughts before he expressed them. "His hair -- they've been intimate. And a man like this, he arranges the crime scenes so methodically; if he'd stripped them post-mortem, the clothes would be piled up neatly somewhere, but they're not: look. They've been chucked all over the room." 

"He wants these boys," Thursday said, eyes skipping back and forth across the scene on the bed, "and he _starts_ to take what he wants, a mutual encounter, but then he stops himself, and strangles them. Why? Not for sexual gratification, exactly. He doesn't rape them." 

"Self-loathing?" Morse suggested, softly. "He hates himself; he can't go on with it. He hates them for making him want them. Perhaps they're all the same physical type for some deeper reason -- they all represent someone else, someone he wanted and couldn't have." 

"He won't let himself have these boys, either," Thursday said slowly, "but he still gets them, doesn't he? He kills them. So he hasn't given into the worst thing, the worst urge, but he's still claimed them, he's got them. They're his." 

Strange was still glancing between them, a sort of horrified understanding dawning in his face. Morse bit his lip, swallowed, and then, "Excuse me," he said, and made for the door in a sudden rush. Thursday blinked after him, wondering if his weak stomach had overtaken him; if he needed to be sick. It had been a while since that had happened, but still, this crime scene was less run-of-the-mill than most. It happened. 

*** 

_The worst thing. The worst urge_. Morse kicked his heel back against the bricks and sighed, ducking his head and closing his eyes as if that might shut out the remembered sound of Thursday's voice. _The worst thing_. Could he really believe that? Worse than an urge to kill, this thing Morse had felt most of his life. Thursday might have his flaws -- his occasional short temper, his tendency to treat criminals with more force than was strictly necessary -- but still, he had a moral compass Morse trusted like no other. If Thursday really thought this was worse than murder, what hope did Morse have? It was in him like a black stain. His father had known it on some level, and hated him for it. For Thursday to hate him too was more than he could take. 

He'd volunteered for stake-out shift again, citing urgency as the reason: this was three dead, now, and they could not allow a fourth man to fall victim to the same killer. But it was recklessness, too, that had drawn him back here, and the sense that this was exactly what he deserved. Why had nothing ever been easy, not once in Morse's life? He couldn't imagine how it felt to be Thursday, or someone like him. To fit in; to be well-liked; to be _normal_. 

He wanted many things from Fred Thursday, not all of them good, but most of all, he wanted Thursday to be proud of him. 

"You again?" The man from the other night, as silent as before. Morse looked up at him sharply and then laughed in relief. 

"Me again," he allowed, inclining his head in acknowledgement. 

"Still don't smoke, eh?" 

The kind eyes were warm and blue, and Morse let himself smile back into them, ducking his head bashfully. Everything about this man's aspect and manner made him bashful, in the most pleasant of ways. Christ, it had been a hard few days. Thursday would hate him if he knew the way his heart was aligned, but this man surely knew, this stranger, and yet he had nothing but compassion for Morse. He understood, and Morse craved that in this moment. 

"You caught me," he said, spreading his hands. "I admit to being an occasional social smoker." 

"Mmm. How occasional?" He man was still smiling at him, and Morse was very conscious of the sheer size of his body, the power in it. It was like being played with by a large dog, knowing it could tear out a man's throat at any moment and feeling strangely honoured that it was choosing to be gentle instead. 

"Perhaps," Morse said carefully, "I'd like a smoke now. If you've got a light?" 

"Clever boy, aren't you?" the man said, and Morse felt himself thrill stupidly with pleasure at the praise. "Do you -- have a place we could go to smoke?" 

This was it: the moment of truth, when their words ceased to be pretty vocal parries and became something real. Morse thought quickly. It was late: there'd been no sign of any trouble, nobody who might have been their mark tonight. And perhaps this was the wrong place to be waiting, anyway; Morse had wanted, really, just to feel as if he was doing something useful, and to purge himself somehow of the black feeling that had settled over him at the crime scene with Thursday. He could go with this man, with his big careful hands and his low London voice, and let himself feel wanted, just for tonight. He wasn't Thursday -- nobody was but the man himself -- but he was as close a substitute as Morse was ever likely to get, and he would not judge. 

"I have a room mate," he said; not true, but he was a policeman, after all; better to be cautious. "But if you know somewhere --" 

The man's hand slipped, finally, into Morse's, albeit for only the briefest of moments. His smile was genuinely gratified. "Come with me." 

Morse, buoyed by the warmth flooding his chest, went without question. 

**** 

His name was Alf, he said. Morse pried no further. His basement flat in Walton Street was modest, but homey, and Morse allowed himself a moment to be surprised by the bachelor accommodations before Alf bore him down onto the narrow single bed. 

The weight of him was everything Morse had wanted. He was twice Morse's size, or felt it; he pressed Morse down by the shoulders and Morse felt his body curve up into every touch, starved for it. If Thursday were the sort of man to debase himself like this, he might kiss Morse this way: hard and thorough, big hands carding through Morse's hair, tugging at the roots of it until every touch sent a little thrill tingling down Morse's spine. He barely noticed the clothes being stripped from him, so deftly was it done. Morse was breathing heavily, pressing himself up against the big body on top of him, and Alf's gentle voice could almost have been Thursday's, crooning in his ear, "My lovely lad, my darling -- darling --" 

The hands around his throat took him absolutely by surprise. The strangest thing of all was the lack of pain accompanying the fierce grip: it was almost as if his state of euphoria had reached such a pitch that it felt normal to be caught in this kind of grip, holding him down against the mattress. Alf's voice was so soothing, so kind: "All right, lad, you're all right -- I've got you -- let go, sweetheart --" 

For a moment, Morse almost wanted to. For Thursday, he would have. 

And then he pictured Thursday's face, coming in here to see this crime scene, the victim finally wearing Morse's face, and the thought galvanised him. Thursday might not care for him the way Morse wished he would, but he _did_ care; Morse knew well enough that he'd been worried and unhappy over Morse's decision to act as bait in this case. He didn't want all Thursday's worst fears to be realised. 

"No --" 

He lurched upward, twisting under Alf with all his strength. It wasn't much, his weight nothing like enough to throwAlf off him, but the element of surprise worked in his favour, and Alf's hands slipped. Most victims of strangling made the mistake of trying to pry their assailant's fingers from their throats: Morse knew better, and he drove up his knee into Alf's body, first into the thigh, and then into the belly when Alf moved reactively. He seemed entirely shocked, and it occurred to Morse that none of his previous victims had fought this way. They'd had no idea what was coming; Alf's kindness had made them sure he'd never hurt them, that he had some other wonderful plan even as he choked them to death. Morse understood why, was the worst thing. He wasn't even sure Alf meant anything other than kindness. This was his service to the boy he loved, whoever that might have been. 

Well, Morse was not Alf's boy. There was a heavy lamp on the bedside table, Morse remembered: he'd been trained to take in every aspect of a room when he entered it, and he used this training now, reaching one long arm for the bedside table while Alf was still distracted by the belly-blow. His fingers slipped on the lamp, but nothing drives movement like pure adrenaline, and a moment later he had yanked the plug free of the socket and was raising the heavy lamp over his head. 

"Sweetheart," Alf said, pleading, utterly taken aback -- "Darling --" 

"I'm sorry," Morse said, and brought the lamp down hard across the back of his head. 

*** 

By the time the police arrived, Morse was dressed again, but there was nothing to be done about the bruises around his throat, now beginning to darken. Thursday was first into the room, eyes wild with concern, and Morse felt himself blushing as Thursday's eyes settled upon him. Morse was suddenly very aware of his bare neck above the collar of the t-shirt he'd donned for the evening. 

"Morse!" 

"I'm all right," Morse said, and winced at the reedy sound of his own voice. He hadn't spoken since he'd made the phone call to the nick. It had taken them twenty minutes to make it here, and he'd been hoping the effects of the strangulation on his vocal cords were temporary. 

"The hell you are!" Thursday dropped without hesitation into a crouch in front of the armchair where Morse had perched himself, seizing Morse by the upper arms and looking searchingly into his face. His concern was palpable, and Morse allowed himself a moment's gratitude when Thursday laid one big hand on his cheek, a brief, involuntary touch. "What were you thinking, you imbecile!" 

"Got him," Morse said wryly, nodding towards the bed. He'd tied Alf up as best he could, but luckily the man hadn't woken up yet. Stupidly, Morse hoped he hadn't done any lasting damage. Alf would spend the rest of his life in prison, anyway; he deserved that, or worse. But still, Morse didn't want to have hurt him. Perhaps he really _was_ as broken as people said. 

"You stupid boy," Thursday said, his voice strained. Something in his tone made Morse meet his eyes fully, and for a moment he almost thought Thursday was going to embrace him. Then he stood up, quite abruptly, and said, "You lot can deal with this. I'm taking Morse to the hospital." 

The unsteadiness of his own legs beneath him took Morse by surprise when Thursday helped him out of the chair. He had no choice in the matter, it seemed: he was getting into Thursday's car, if Thursday had to carry him there. Morse briefly debated letting himself loll enough against Thursday that the DI would have to lift him; but then there would be no escaping the hospital, and anyway, it was pleasant enough to feel Thursday's firm arm around him, supporting Morse's weight. 

"I don't need a hospital," Morse muttered, as Thursday poured him into the passenger seat. 

"You need one," Thursday said curtly, shutting the driver's door behind him. Morse reached out, seized the sleeve of his overcoat. 

"Sir, no -- I _need_ \--" 

He took a deep breath. Thursday was watching him very intently now, and Morse felt unhinged and giddy, as if Alf's hands were still around his throat. 

"You don't want to be alone?" Thursday ventured, very gently, and Morse nodded. 

Thursday sighed. "Why'd you go with him, Morse? He could have killed you -- damn nearly did, by the look of it." 

"I knew what was coming," Morse pointed out, but he could tell by the weight of Thursday's eyes on him that he was unsatisfied with that answer. "And, I -- "

He trailed off. Thursday was braver, peeling back the layers of the evening like a scab from a wound. 

"Did you know who you were going with, when you went back with him? Did you know you were following our murderer?" 

Morse looked down, shook his head dumbly. 

Thursday took a deep breath. "Then why, Morse? Why did you go with him?" 

"I wanted what they all wanted, I suppose," Morse said tightly, lifting one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "I'm as bad as he is. I wanted _the worst thing_ , like you said." He laughed weakly. "I knew you'd hate me if you knew what I really am. My father did." 

"Don't you _ever_ compare me to your father," Thursday broke in harshly, with a fierceness that took Morse by surprise. "He didn't know what he had in you. If you'd been my boy --" 

"I don't want a _father_ in you," Morse cut in, laughing; laughing because it was all so terrible, and Thursday -- poor, reliable, ordinary, heart-of-gold Thursday -- still didn't understand at all. "It's far worse than that, don't you see?" He ought to have stopped himself talking, but the words kept pouring out of his mouth. It was probably too late already. "Why do you think I went to bed with him? I thought you'd spotted the patterns in this case. I remind him of whoever it is he really wants, and he --" 

"Do you think I don't know what it's like?" Thursday snapped, cutting Morse off mid-tirade. He held Morse's eyes for a moment, and then turned the key, sending the engine roaring into life. "Whatever you think you know about me, son, you're wrong, I promise you that." 

Confusion kept Morse silent as the car roared down the dark road, taking the corners too fast and too reckless. Morse's flat, when they pulled up outside it, looked uninviting and dark, but Thursday didn't, evidently, plan to drop Morse off there and leave -- he helped Morse out of the car, down the stairs, and Morse let him without a word. His whole body was wound to a point, waiting for a punch or a declaration, whatever Thursday was saving up for him. To break the silence would be to spoil the impact of it, whatever it was. 

When Thursday shut the door behind them, Morse was expecting a raised voice, but when Thursday finally spoke, it was low and careful. 

"When I was in Italy," Thursday said -- he was looking at the door, not at Morse, and his jaw was pulled taut -- "when I was in Italy, during the war, there was another soldier. Harry. And I'd never, before or since, but I -- Morse --" 

When he looked up, his eyes were wide and plaintive and Morse gripped the edge of the settee he'd collapsed upon, his breath caught in his throat, waiting. 

"I didn't know you were that way, if you are," Thursday went on, "but I know they aren't a different _species_ , lad. Anyone can -- and I didn't want --" 

"I only wanted you to be proud of me," Morse said, faintly. "I just…" 

"You _stupid_ boy," Thursday rasped again, and kissed him. 

Superficially, it was much like when Alf had kissed him, and yet this was _Thursday_ , half-lifting Morse and bearing him back against the settee; this was Thursday's mouth on his. Morse's head spun. It seemed unreal, impossible; a fever-dream brought on by the stress of the evening. And yet there was nothing unreal about the firm weight of Thursday's body, the warmth of his hands as they cupped Morse's face and then his shoulders, petting. Thursday was at once gentle and possessive, coaxing Morse's mouth sweetly open with his own, and Morse felt a low raw sound rise up in his throat, a cry of disbelief and joy. 

"Sir," he breathed, scrabbling at the front of Thursday's shirt, "Sir, I --" 

"Shhh," Thursday told him, firmly, and kissed Morse's jaw and his ear and the hollow of his throat until Morse fell back, gasping, and there was no more room for protest or thought. 

*** 

When Fred woke up, Morse was still asleep, his fair head pillowed in the crook of Fred's shoulder and arm. He was still in his clothes, bar the shoes; Thursday had given into the desire to kiss him senseless, since it seemed the lad needed the reassurance as much as Thursday wanted to give it, but he'd been through too much for anything more. They both had, at that. 

The bruises on Morse's neck made Thursday's chest pull painfully. That _bastard_ , to have done this to Fred's boy. And yet, could Fred truly blame a man for wanting Morse? That everyone didn't want him was beyond Fred. Yes, he was odd, he was quiet, he never quite found a place to rest, but beneath that, he was a rare find, a true gem. And to think that Morse had felt himself unworthy of Fred! The thought was absurd. If Fred had to spend every day of his life reassuring the lad that he made Fred proud, he could do that. Fred would enjoy that. 

No more undercover, though, Fred would see to that. If Fred had to see another man's marks on his boy once more, he wouldn't be responsible for his actions. 

*** 

When Morse woke up, it was to Thursday's beloved face above his, soft with gentleness. A carousel of memories raced through Morse's head, finally settling on the final image of Thursday -- _Thursday_ \-- kissing him goodnight, and he felt himself smile. 

"Still here?" Morse said, reaching blindly for Thursday's hand. His voice was still rough from rough treatment, but Thursday took his hand easily, enfolded it in his own and held it to his breast. Morse could feel his heartbeat through vest and shirt, and the warmth of Thursday's broad chest. 

"Still here," Thursday promised, and kissed him again.


End file.
